


Sacred the Sweetness

by Elleth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Hopeful Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/pseuds/Elleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arwen and Gilraen, one autumn evening in Imladris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred the Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [politicalmamaduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmamaduck/gifts).



_The Year 2953 of the Third Age_

"You have been quiet. What weighs on your mind?" Gilraen asked Arwen one late afternoon when the mist lay thick across the valley. Where the paths down from the main house plunged into the gorge of the river, they vanished into the fog, and the pine-woods on the slopes above the valley stood wreathed in shreds and shrouds of it. Below, where the market and the guest houses lay, lights and lanterns glimmered like a collection of jewels. 

Gilraen could not turn her eyes away, until she became aware of Arwen's silence, and turned to look. 

Arwen was reclining on one of the chairs in the Hall of Fire, and rose when Gilraen extended a hand to her, to join her by the windows looking out into the autumn dusk. Both of them had foregone dining with the rest of the house, and retreated together. Except for them, the hall still was empty and the fire burned dim and low, but the glow from the banked hearth flowed along Arwen's bare arms like an echo of the light within her, and Gilraen felt almost uncouth in comparison, marvelling that she was permitted to touch her at all, running a hand down her smooth skin to finally finally twine their fingers together.

Still Arwen did not answer, her eyes half-lidded and her gaze drawn inward, but Gilraen caught herself marvelling and laughed softly to herself. "And here I thought that I had lost my fascination with you Elves, after twenty years in Imladris…" 

" _Only_ twenty years, you should say," Arwen gently corrected her. Her voice was low and contemplative. "I have been away from home for longer than that." 

"You have that time," Gilraen replied. "I am not yet old - nor am I young any longer in the reckoning of my people. I remember still that when Estel was young it seemed unimaginable to me that I must leave my home for so long, and now I - am not certain whether I would call Naithost and the Angle my home, or Imladris." 

Arwen's arms went around her shoulders, and she moved bodily between Gilraen and the window. "The weather makes you gloomy. You have grown a little strange in autumn each year since we met, and I can tell that today is such a day. You are wearing mourning today, are you not? You told me of this dress - night blue and black brocade adorned with the star of the Dúnedain." 

Gilraen looked up at Arwen, who stood a head taller than her. "It has only been five years since we met - and I have never yet told you... my grief always becomes more present here, with so little death and so little loss, and knowing my son walks the wilderness alone, as his father did when I was young. So little changes. I had the news of Arathorn on a night like this, and it is hard to forget. His funeral, also. It makes me worry that your brothers will come bearing his body as they bore his father to me. It is not yet the anniversary of his death, and I have never allowed myself to commemorate him before, not here. I know Círien - his mother - does in my stead; she and I write, at times."

She swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat, and tried to banish the last view of Arathorn's beloved face and the sound of a stone rolling to seal his barrow from her mind, or the funereal procession, torches held aloft, descending down the Barrows' Ridge back into Naithost, with only the window-lights of the town visible through the blanket of mists. It was no wonder the view from the windows of Imladris reminded her of it.

Arwen said nothing in response, but her face softened, and her eyes saddened, the light in them dimming to a spark, but not fading entirely. She seemed lost in thought once more, and Gilraen, knowing Arwen's habits, waited for her to speak again. 

Her gaze was drawn into the valley again. The mist had grown thicker. 

While Gilraen still looked, Arwen brushed her hair aside, and lowered her lips to Gilraen's ear. Gilraen wondered briefly what should happen if any servant came in now to stir the fire - dining must be almost finished - or someone else found them wound about each other as they were. 

Arwen had no such compunctions, or at least her mind was bent on a different matter. "My mother - she passed a gift to me before she departed over the Sea, a token to remind me that there is life and light always. If you come to my chambers with me, I shall show you."

Gilraen nodded, surprised. She had met Arwen for the first time at the memorial to her mother, set into the gardens of Rivendell, a trellis overgrown by honeysuckle and ivy that afforded a wide view down the Bruinen and had been one of Celebrían's dearest haunts. Gilraen found herself drawn to it when she sought solitude. Arwen joined her there sometimes, but she hardly spoke of her mother.

Gilraen could not refuse. With a last look outside at the falling night, she turned to accompany Arwen's soundless steps.

* * * 

Gilraen weighed the green stone in the eagle brooch in her hand and looked at Arwen in wonder. "This is the Elessar, is it not? Idril's stone. I have heard the stories, also, when your father taught Estel history - she is both our foremother, after all." 

"It is," Arwen said. "I think. Some say it is not the original stone and that this was made in Eregion by Celebrimbor at my grandmother's request, but my grandmother insists it came from Yavanna herself through Gandalf's hands to halt some of the fading that is the fate of Middle-earth. I believe her - what is within this stone is brighter even than the light at the time of my birth; it must be the sunlight of the Elder Days. If there is a second stone at all, it may reside with my grandmother now. She would be so gracious as to take the lesser of two fair things." 

Arwen sat on her bed, with her legs folded gracefully beneath her, her blue gown drawn aside to reveal her knees, and she was looking down at her clenched hands. "It is said, also, that one will come to claim it, and at such a time you must bequeath it - if you hold it until this comes to pass. Until then you may have it, if you wish - if it eases your heart."

"I know," Gilraen said, averting her gaze to the windows of Arwen's chambers. She had settled in the westernmost of Imladris' corner towers, higher than the main house, looking out at the mountains and the sky. It had grown dark while they had spoken, and the mist showed no sign of relenting its grasp on the valley, but above it to the north glinted a scattering of stars, for only a moment, until another shroud drew over them. 

"I thought once, when your father told us of the stone's origin, that it must have been intended for Arathorn. The eagle of his name, and his heritage. I do not know if it seems right for me to bear it in his stead."

"There is so much grief in you yet for him, dearest of hearts. You should bear the Elessar - not in his stead, or for his sake, but for your own, and heal. That is the property of that stone, and you are of the sun much more than I am - you are mortal, although your name binds the two of us. I am given a choice, but that is yet before me, and it may be many long years before I am made to choose. That time, and perhaps the rest of my time, I will spend with you." 

Gilraen shook her head, only slightly, helplessly unwilling to even consider such a sacrifice, but could not find the heart to object in words. Too much was tied into that offer, and it was made so lightly that Gilraen could not easily accept it - that Arwen should give up her all, for a brief time of grace, bliss and sweetness, sacred as it was - unthinkable.

Arwen paused, as though her own words or Gilraen's silence had surprised her. Her gaze lifted to the net of silver lace Gilraen wore over her braids, set with seed pearls and white jewels as though a night sky ablaze with stars had been snared in her dark hair. Arwen beckoned, and when Gilraen knelt by her, ran her fingers through it. "Was your mother foresighted?" 

"She _is_ foresighted. She gave me this headdress saying it would serve me as well as it had her. And she foretold me hope when my father would not permit Arathorn's courting - and Hope I gave to the Dúnedain." 

"And kept none to yourself?" Arwen said softly. "You fulfilled the purpose you came here for - Aragorn is a man grown and bears the Ring of Barahir and Narsil's shards. For you, it is time to reap your reward, and it is fortunate that your name is true-spoken, as names among the Eldar sometimes also are: You, Snarer of Stars, have snared Gil-Estel, for am I not Undómiel, the Silmaril of Eärendil as it shines in the evenings, and a sign of hope in my own right?"

Gilraen sat heavily on the bed and leaned in to kiss her, finding the gesture returned gently. It filled her with wonder, even after the five years they had had together, that Arwen should spend so much of her love and sweetness on her. "So you are, and without you I would have lost all the hope I had that we may live until this dark has passed - and you, long after I am dust."

Arwen let out a soft breath. Their faces, when they parted, remained close together and their noses were almost touching, but neither made a move to repeat the caress. Gilraen laid the Elessar beside her into the sheets. "I do not think I shall need this."

Arwen said, "There is no shame in having that help, and there is no shame in accepting more, or gifts freely given. I know that you may never accept it fully, but I shall not let slip through our fingers what we have. If I must, I will shine yet brighter for both of us. Come, rise, and let me take this dress off you. There has been enough talk of grief and mourning for tonight." 

"And yet," Gilraen replied, withdrawing, not without regret, and closed Arwen's fingers around the brooch before rising as she was bidden. "There is mist in the valley tonight, and the stars are shrouded." 

"Yet I am beside you. Do not forget that." 

Arwen came to stand with her, and with swift fingers unlaced the dress until she could brush it from Gilraen's shoulders and bend to kiss her skin, shoulderblades, the back of her neck, her spine. 

Gilraen closed her eyes in bliss, briefly, before taking Arwen's hand and guiding her toward the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Naithost - a name I invented for the main settlement of the Dúnedain, literally Angle-Town, near the angle of Bruinen and Hoarwell where they settled. 
> 
> Snarer of Stars - a rough approximation of Gilraen's name, as per Tolkien's own translation: "One adorned with a tressure set with small gems in its network" as per Vinyar Tengwar 42. She's actually named for the headpiece that also features in this story, often worn by elven women, and a mark of royalty among Dúnedain women descended from Elros.
> 
> The title of this fic was borrowed from the poem [Anniversary](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182930) by Cecilia Woloch. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to Suzelle, resident Dúnedain and editing expert, for her beta. ♥


End file.
